A Minor Miracle

A miracle is occurring on my front porch, where resides a large, gold, Tuscan-looking flower pot that held yellow mums last fall and a bouquet of dried stalks all winter. By the time I got around to breaking off the stalks in February, new foliage had emerged from the soil (Texas winters being what they are). Though it has grown quite large, the plant is not particularly interesting. Its leggy stems do not form the usual tight, rounded dome of a mum bush. Instead, they lean away from the house toward the sun, like concert-goers waving their arms above their heads, captured by camera in their sway to the right. I knew blossoms would not appear, but resurrected greenery is a little miracle itself, and better than an empty flower pot.

In April, I noticed buds on this autumn annual! As a few of them timidly open in air that must feel shockingly warm, they remind me to release my rigidity in life about what should happen when.

It took me a couple of days to realize there is a mystery afoot: the buds and flowers are scarlet. I have photographic proof (see post: Every Drop of Sun) of a glorious September day last year, when one beam of sunlight punctured through the trees and lit that pot of yellow mums aglow, as if the very finger of God was bestowing a special blessing on them.

(I like to imagine that sometimes when he sees a tree or a rock or a squirrel joyfully doing what it was made to do, he cannot keep from reaching out to touch it.)

It does not seem likely that golden mums could be reborn as red ones. I fantasize that maybe this little surprise is a glitch like the one that occurred in The Truman Show, where Jim Carrey’s character’s entire perfect life is a reality TV show and he doesn’t know it. He detects a filming error and eventually unravels the entire façade. Maybe my life is not what I think it is. Maybe the russet mums are my glitch.

So far, only about half the stalks have developed buds and only about eight or nine of those have bloomed, but more are opening every day. I'm sure some will never open all the way, but for several weeks, I have been drawn to that mysterious gift whenever I need a little less reality, as though a sacred secret is hidden there just for me. Its effect on me has been curious, calming, intriguing. I think of Jesus pointing to a lily to make a point about God's care for his creatures. Consider the lilies, he said.

I'm considering the mums.

P.S. Several weeks into the mystery, the flowers are turning out to be yellowish--but unlike the originals, they have red centers. I think it still qualifies as a mystery. They are, after all, mums in May.

What's your miracle?

(HAha!I just noticed that if you click on the picture, you can see my dog in the doorway!

Wanting: A Cure for the Common Wait

I have heard that the first fear babies manifest is the fear of falling. After their comfy stay in the womb, the perilousness of being held in the open by something as insubstantial as a pair of hands creates great insecurity. Newborns instinctively recognize their status on the planet as the most powerless of all beings and this results in anxiety. That is one reason we swaddle them.

The insecurity of powerlessness remains one of our greatest fears. The psyche will hold onto just about anything to avoid that feeling, but who could ever have imagined that wanting is one of those supports?

From the moment of birth, we are all subject to sehnsucht, a yearning for what is missing, for home, for we know not what. This manifests as wanting. In its infancy, it may look like a wish, but expectation is low so it is usually wistful and insubstantial, but comforting. It has a sad tinge when it manifests as longing, and excitement when felt as desire. It becomes a curse when it grows to the status of craving and addiction.

This week I have randomly heard three quotes on the subject:
Eckhart Tolle - the ego wants to want, more than it wants to have.
Andy somebody - The mind is a goal-seeking mechanism
C.S. Lewis - It was when I was happiest that I longed most...The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing...to find the place where all the beauty came from.

For the last six years, I have been studying and practicing the art of loving what is. This has developed into a distinct decrease in wanting. I have learned, as Paul did (Phil. 4:11), to be content with my current level of almost everything (though I still struggle sometimes with chaos!). My current understanding of Psalm 23 - "the Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want"--was derived from my experience of learning what it means not to want.

There is a downside to not wanting. Though it feels peaceful, it can also feel passionless, aimless, purposeless—passive (ew!); yet those do not describe my life--only the feelings that are generated as I wait on the Lord for my next assignment. I have some ideas I could pursue, yet I wait for the go-ahead. As I wait, I wonder: could it be that passion, aim and purpose that are not situationally (moment-by-moment) planted in us by the Lord are self-imposed, and we cling to them and defend them because they are productive and engaging and...a hedge against the helpless feeling of powerlessness?

I had the momentary impression this week of falling into nothingness, as a result of not having a particular project or passion to attach myself to, to give meaning to my life. In response, I started to want stuff. I told myself to get up and get busy, take control of my life, do something productive so I can feel that I am. So that I would not feel powerless.

The spirit and the mind are interwoven like a fabric, but they are becoming quite distinguishable from each other in me. When I release the body's and the psyche's cravings, I experience freedom, but I find that the mind hovers always nearby, ready to rescue my falling sense of self by convincing it that it can support itself. God forbid that it should come to a realization of its own insignificance and utter vulnerability. Once again, I find new meaning in the truth that I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me (Phil. 4:13).

Godliness with contentment is great gain (1 Tim. 6:6). Godliness with discontent is two cats, tails tied together, thrown over a clothesline, to borrow one of my husband’s sayings. It is war. On the other hand, I’m experiencing contentment without the fullness of God as an empty runway. This is good to know. Contentment is a jumping off place, not the final destination. It is the necessary emptying of self in conjunction with open receptivity for what the Lord will plant. Until He fills me, though, it is a quiet, but boring and unfulfilling place to reside.

The recognition of sehnsucht allows me to accept that there is an inherent yearning from which I cannot escape. The more I try to escape it, the more I will transfer that to wanting, and the less room there will be in me for the power of God. His power in me does not in any way resemble the pseudo-power of wanting.

P.S. Stay tuned next time for a defense of wanting.